If the new year were a room, it should be newly painted, undecorated, nascent, vast with high ceilings and bay windows. Panelled walls, textured like egg shell, hard wooden floors all ready for adornment, yet unset, undefined, discontinuous from previous times. For this room has entertained life for years, thoughts, ideas, dramas and realisations have occured in many guises within its walls. Sometimes its occupants looked at its floor, the walls, out through its windows, at the back of its door, and thought ‘these things will outlive me.’ This leather in hand, this fixture, these things that comfort and confine, gild and trap, lull and preserve. These things are dust, wrought by more dust, animated by some quintessence of what? This room hosts the pursuit of sublime protean answers to that endless riddle.